


Tempora Heroica

by herewestandinfireandblood (fairytale_bliss)



Series: Amor Vincit Omnia [10]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Jorah lives AU, Multi, S8 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:54:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21952504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairytale_bliss/pseuds/herewestandinfireandblood
Summary: [Showverse] Ten years after the Long Night, Daenerys and Jorah return to the spot where it all began with a history lesson for the next generation.
Relationships: Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: Amor Vincit Omnia [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1541743
Comments: 10
Kudos: 63





	Tempora Heroica

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Happy Holidays to all who celebrate, and Happy Wednesday to those who don't. I hope you have a wonderful time. You are an amazing part of the fandom and I feel so privileged to be surrounded by other such talented writers and artists.
> 
> Also, thank you so much for the incredible response to my previous fic--I wasn't expecting it at all and I'm so happy you liked it. <3
> 
> This is not officially a part of the collection--I just wanted to post something on Christmas Day because it feels strange not to!

_Tempora Heroica_

The north never changes. Pristine snow blanketing the earth, thick as the most decadent furs Essosi traders could wish for. A barren wilderness, trees reaching skeletal fingers up to the iron grey sky above, pleading with the gods for some respite from the cold winds that howl through the empty landscape like direwolves at midnight. A muffled silence, as if the whole world has been submerged, never to hear clearly again

Daenerys surveys the scenery as she treks through the snow, her furs heavy with moisture, the cold living within her very bones. She hates it here. It’s too cold. She’s a dragon. Dragons do better with warmth, where ice doesn’t cling to their scales and clip their wings.

The cold doesn’t bother her northern husband nearly as much. He’s of these lands, the blood of the First Men running through his veins, made of ice as she is made of fire. He’s wearing a woollen cloak affixed with a dragon clasp over boiled leather, Dragonsong sheathed at his side, looking every inch the proud northern lord. It’s a demeanour that’s never faded no matter how long he’s been away from his homeland. His beard is speckled with ice and his hair, more grey than ginger now, has darkened with the soft snowflakes that have melted there.

“Are we nearly there yet?”

Daenerys glances to her left, unable to stop her amused smile. “Almost. Just a few more yards to go.”

Daenora, her eldest, trudges through the snow beside her; it’s up to her knees and soaking through the material of her wools.

“Is this where you were when the Long Night finished?” asks Eleana with bright interest, crossing her forearms on top of her father’s head. A mere year younger than her sister, she’s exuberant and excitable, eager to expand her horizons—if the subject is interesting enough. Reanimated corpses clearly fits that for her.

“It is,” Jorah replies. He’s holding a calf in each hand, keeping her balanced upon his shoulders.

He’s a wonderful father. Dotes upon his children. Teaches them with kindness and patience. He has more patience than _she_ does, dragon-tempered as she is. If they want something, they know to go straight to Jorah, for he capitulates within moments. He’s wrapped around their little fingers.

Well, it’s no crime to love one’s children. If Tyrion was to be listened to, it was the only form of pure love there was.

 _My sister was a monster_ , he’d say, _but no one could ever deny that she loved her children. Even Joffrey, vicious piece of shit that he was. She would have done anything to protect them. She had more faults than I can count…but a mother’s instinct wasn’t one of them._

The thought makes Daenerys tighten her hold on little Jeoreys, perched on her hip. Their youngest and only son, only three years old, he is the apple of her eye. Perhaps it’s because he reminds her of all the things she lost with Rhaego, but he is so precious to her, always ready with a smile that’s in direct contrast to his father and the man he was named for, Jorah’s own father. Hard places breed hard men, Jorah had once told her, and she had no doubt that the Old Bear, Jeor Mormont, had been as hard as these lands. Jeoreys is neither dragon nor bear but a creature far softer, but loved no less because of it.

At last, they come upon that sacred spot. Daenora stops, surveying the undisturbed snow with eyes as blue as the Summer Isles. “Here?”

“Here,” Daenerys confirms. If she closes her eyes, she can feel the years melting away. There’s smoke in her nostrils and stinging her eyes, blood sticky against her face, mud in her hair and weighing down her furs, the unfamiliar weight of a weapon in her hands, so heavy she can barely lift it. But she must. She must. For her people. For her kingdom.

For him.

“Mama?”

Distantly, she hears Daenora’s voice and she pulls herself back to the present with a momentous amount of effort. Jorah steps up behind her, protective at her back as he’s always been.

“Mama’s fine,” he says, lifting Eleana over his head with ease. Older he may be, but his strength has never wavered. He sets his youngest daughter down in the snow and lays a reassuring hand in the small of Daenerys’ back.

“So, what happened?” Eleana asks, tilting her head back to look up at them. Her eyes alone are the amethyst renowned with the Targaryen lineage; Daenerys feels as if she’s looking at a child version of herself whenever she looks upon her. She’s the only one who looks truly Targaryen, with silver-blonde hair, although, like her siblings, she has the Valyrian-steel features of her father, and is all the more beautiful for them.

“I was here with Drogon, giving Jon a path through the White Walkers. He managed to get away, but I hadn’t realised that there were others coming for me, not until it was too late. They started clambering on Drogon, and I fell from his back into the snow below. Drogon did manage to take flight to escape them, and the White Walkers who had been climbing all over him started to fall from the sky. I was lying there trying to catch my breath, a bit disorientated from the fall, when one of them moved, started to get up.”

The two girls gasp; although it’s a story that Daenora has heard before, she never seems to tire of it, nor has she ever heard it told from the spot where it all happened.

“It was the most grotesque thing I had ever seen in my life. Covered in blood, nothing more than a skull, flesh rotting from its bones. It came towards me, like some kind of lopsided scorpion, and I was terrified. I started trying to shuffle backwards, but I was on my back and there wasn’t enough time to escape. I was certain that was how I would meet my end, killed by one of the mindless horrors of winter I was trying to save the rest of Westeros from.”

“Then what?” Eleana asks with wide eyes. She’s hanging on to every word, even though she knows the tale ends well, for they would not be there if it hadn’t.

“Then your father came for me,” Daenerys says simply. “Wielding Heartsbane in his hands.”

“Taking off the head of the approaching White Walker!” adds Daenora, unsheathing her wooden sword from her side. Both girls worship their father, and Daenora in particular never misses an opportunity to praise his heroism.

“That’s right,” Daenerys agrees. “He helped me back to my feet and he led me towards Winterfell.”

“But you were ambushed again,” continues Daenora, eager to show off her knowledge of the most famous night in recent history.

“By a hundred more White Walkers,” Jorah growls, moving up behind Eleana to grab her around the waist and lift her back off the ground. She squeals and giggles, kicking out her legs, but Jorah hoists her up with ease, soaring her through the winter air like Drogon might.

“My turn!” Jeoreys demands, reaching out for him. Daenerys laughs, hiking him closer to her hip.

“Stay with Mama, special boy,” she coos, and he settles after a moment, resting his cheek against her shoulder. Of all of their children, Jeoreys is the most placid. As he grows he might be more interested in the books and the songs rather than being a warrior , she thinks, like Samwell Tarly. She doesn’t think she’ll mind too much. It’s a refreshing change to know a man who does not relish bloodshed.

Not that her husband ever has. He’s done his duty, done it well, but he’s never enjoyed the act of killing. In fairness, neither has Jon. They’re both decent northern men, and the children are lucky to have such influences in their lives.

Especially when their other male influence is Tyrion Lannister.

“ _Then_ what?” Eleana asks once her giggles have subsided and her feet have found solid ground once more.

“Then Mama and Papa fought together, side by side!” Daenora supplies. She waves her sword high above her head, before emitting a battle cry. “For the dynasty!”

“It wasn’t quite like that, Nora,” Jorah chuckles, reaching out to ruffle her honey-coloured hair. She beams. Nora is the petname used by Jorah and Jorah alone, and Daenerys knows that her daughter loves it when he calls her that. She’s his little Nora, his firstborn, his precious little miracle. “Giving a battle cry was the last thing on our minds, quite frankly. The only thing we were thinking about was survival.”

Which Daenerys knows isn’t strictly true; the only thing on Jorah’s mind had been _her_ survival, a single-minded obsession he had stuck to with dogged grit. Throwing himself in the way of blows that should have been for her, taking blade after blade for her and yet still standing, still going, still fighting. His house words personified. And there had been nothing else on her mind, either, than just getting through. Fighting as hard for him as he was fighting for her. Taking revenge for any blow he was taking, the blood of her enemies arcing through the air and splattering her clothes just as much as Jorah’s blood was. She remembers ramming her piece of dragonglass into the face of one of those heinous creatures, feeling the skin splinter and sag under the force of her blow, her fury and fear growing each time she saw Jorah duelling. The dragonglass, jagged and unfamiliar in her hands, slipping through her fingers with her unsure grip, arms growing heavier by the second as she exerted every muscle she had to fight and keep on fighting…

“I bet you were good!” says Eleana. “You’re the best fighter in the whole world, Papa. And Mama is really good too!”

“I wasn’t very good back then,” Daenerys admits. “I’d never held a sword in my life before.”

Her youngest daughter pulls a face. “You mean you got to an _old_ age and you’d never once held a sword? Not ever ever?”

“Not ever ever,” she replies. “Targaryens don’t tend to favour swords, you know. They prefer dragons.”

“And I’m certainly not the best fighter in the world,” says Jorah, but she can tell that he’s pleased with the praise, as any man is to be worshipped by his favourite girls.

“You are!” Daenora insists. “You’ve taught us how to fight. Look!” Here she demonstrates a lunging jab with her wooden sword. Jorah dodges out of its way easily, and grabs her around the waist.

“Rule one of sword fighting,” he says. “Never let your guard down.”

She pouts, folding her arms across her chest, as stubborn as her mother, as Jorah is wont to say. “You cheated.”

“I didn’t. I simply read your body language. It’s impossible to lose that way. You always show too much of your heart. But don’t worry. You’re still young. You’ve plenty of time to learn. And you’re a much better swordswoman than I was at your age.”

“What about me, Papa?” says Eleana, never wanting to be left out.

He presses a kiss to her hair as she clamours around his legs. “You’re _both_ going to surpass your old father. Visenya and Rhaenys come again.”

Daenerys bites the inside of her cheek to hide her smile. He always knows exactly what to say to flatter his Targaryen women.

Seemingly satisfied with his answer, Eleana turns back to her. “Then what happened, Mama?”

“Well, I don’t know how long the fighting went on for. It seemed like an age. Every time we cut a White Walker down there were ten more to take its place. I was tiring.” Every swing of the sword had cost her more effort than she had left, and she’d known that Jorah was tiring just the same. His movements were coming slower, his blocks not quick enough. More blows were landing. Blood and gore streaked his face. Any other man would have succumbed before then. But he’d kept on fighting, never letting up for even a second, not even when more blows struck, slicing cleanly through his armour. There he stood, faltering, stumbling, but never giving in, utterly focused on his resolute task of ensuring her safety. Nothing else had mattered to him, she’d seen that in the way that he put himself between her and the blades time and time again, putting his life on the line for her.

 _You know I would die for you_.

His sworn oath come to life.

_I need you by my side._

Her own never more desperate than it was then, the harsh reality of their predicament setting in with a terror that seized her by the throat.

“How did you keep going?” Eleana wonders aloud.

“Instinct and nothing more,” says Jorah. “When it comes to it, no one wants to die. We fight tooth and nail to remain on this earth.”

It’s so much more than that. He’d had no care for his own life that night. If he had, he would not have volunteered to lead the charge with the Dothraki. He would not have come to her beyond the walls of Winterfell. He’ll say that he was only doing his duty as a knight in her service, but that’s not the truth. Otherwise any one of her Unsullied could have come, any other knight sworn to protect the helpless.

He’d come to her merely as a man in love with a woman, as no other had. Not Jon Snow, who she had started to think she was in love with and who was in love with her in turn. Jon had chosen love for his family, love for the cousins he saw as siblings. When he’d been faced with that choice, he’d chosen the Starks of Winterfell, not the Targaryen queen he professed to serve and adore.

Jorah had stayed true to the oaths he had sworn, that he would fight for her, kill for her, die for her, protect her no matter the cost. The Long Night had been dark and full of terrors, but the grey light of dawn had begun to illuminate her own path.

“Your father was every inch the noble knight from the songs that day,” she tells them.

“As good as the song?” Deanora asks eagerly.

“Better,” says Daenerys firmly, exchanging a glance with her husband, who only shakes his head in bemusement.

“That’s my favourite song!” Eleana exclaims. “And all my friends are jealous that my mama _and_ my papa are sung about! None of them even have one famous parent!”

“That’s because they all live on the streets,” Daenora says in exasperation. “They can’t all live in castles and be princesses or princes.”

Daenerys hides her smile against her son’s fair hair. Eleana is the kind of child who would befriend beggars and kings alike; she has no concept of the rich and the poor. She often goes missing to play with the children of Flea Bottom, returning to the Red Keep with her dresses torn and her face streaked with mud and the widest grin she’s ever seen stretched right across her face. Daenora, by contrast, is much more reserved, her father’s daughter right down to the bone; often she’s hidden away in some alcove with her nose buried in a book, whether it’s about the history of the Seven Kingdoms or studies on medicine from maesters centuries past, or else following Samwell Tarly around. No doubt she’s more hindrance than help to the young man, but he seems happy to pass on his knowledge and Tyrion proclaims that a learned mind is as good as any sword. It would blow the mind of any ordinary child, but Daenerys supposes none of her children were destined to be normal. Born of ice and fire, to a queen and a warrior. Legends in Westeros’ history books.

“Are you a prince, Papa?” Eleana asks, pausing to look up at him.

Jorah snorts. “Gods, no.”

“But princesses nearly always marry princes.”

“Aye, that they do.”

“Just not in this case,” says Daenerys with a grin. “But a knight is much braver than any prince.”

“ _Anointed_ knight,” he corrects her with a grin.

“What’s the difference?” asks Eleana.

“Anointed knights aren’t born with the title. They’re made.”

“What do you mean?” she says with a frown. “Made like babies?”

The mere mention of making babies leaves Jorah looking stricken. Normally Daenerys enjoys seeing him squirm, but that’s a conversation she’d rather leave for another day too, so she comes to his rescue. “No. You have to work your way up or do something brave. Someone else, like another knight or a king or queen say the words and make it so.”

“Who made you a knight, Papa?” Daenora wonders. “Was it Mama?”

He exchanges a glance with her. “It wasn’t, sweetling. Another king, many years before I met your mother.”

“Who? King Joffrey?”

“Gods, no. I was by your mother’s side then. No, it was Robert Baratheon who knighted me.”

“The _Usurper?_ ” she clarifies incredulously. “But Papa, he took the throne from us! You fought for him?” She looks wounded at the mere thought that he could ever betray the Targaryen name. Daenerys resolves to ensure that she never finds out that he _did_ betray it once, so many years ago when there was nothing in the world that meant more to him than Bear Island did. Her own heart broke enough over that; she does not wish to inflict the same upon her children, not when Jorah hasn’t been that man in decades.

“No one is entitled to the throne,” she reminds her eldest gently. “Certainly not because your forebears sat on it before you. I learned that, and so will you. The manner in which Robert Baratheon became king might not have been glorious…but something had to be done. I know you’ve read about it in those books of yours. You know what your grandfather did. Reprehensible, vile crimes. They weren’t things committed in war. They were done in peace time. Queen Sansa’s own grandfather and uncle, burned alive for the sheer fun of it.”

Some of her opposition might have claimed that she was no different, burning Randyll and Dickon Tarly after they had sacked the supply train. She still stands by her decision. They betrayed their liege lords the Tyrells in opposing her, and led to the downfall of the whole house. They committed treason, and so it was punished, much the same way the Freys were punished by Arya Stark. Hers was no worse than that. She had always been adamant that innocent lives would not be lost, and so they weren’t.

“I did fight for Robert Baratheon,” says Jorah now. “I was asked to take up arms by the Starks. You know House Mormont is sworn to them, and I did what was right.”

“But you didn’t _stay_ sworn to House Stark.”

He chuckles. “No. I met your mother years later, and pledged my sword to her. Serving her was the most honoured thing I’ve ever done.”

“And you fell in love!” squeals Eleana. “Just like in the songs!”

“Just like in the songs,” Daenerys agrees. It might not have run as smoothly as that, taken many, _many_ years longer than it should have, but they got there in the end and that’s really all that matters.

“When were you knighted, Papa?” asks Daenora, swiftly returning to the topic at hand.

“After the Siege of Pyke,” he answers her.

“Your papa was the first over the breach,” Daenerys adds.

“Second,” he corrects her again with a smirk. “Thoros of Myr was first with his flaming sword.”

“Well, second is almost as good,” she says. “It shows your bravery. You didn’t try to hide at the back.”

“I wanted to prove my worth. I was still young enough in those days.”

She rolls her eyes now. “You’re not that old now, ser. And I would still have you as my sworn protector every day of the week. You’re my knight always, from this day until my last day.”

“The bear and the dragon!” sings Eleana. “With teeth and claws and fire they fought, cutting down White Walkers merely for sport!”

Jorah winces, and Daenerys laughs. It’s never been his favourite song. It’s preferable to _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ , that bawdy tavern song which makes him scowl whenever he hears a note of it, but he’s not one for basking in his infamy, either. There are songs for all the heroes of the Long Night, from the White Wolf to the Lord of Light’s greatest warrior, but in the months after her coronation, King’s Landing rang out with that same tune over and over, louder than any bells of war might be. It was their way of letting her know that she was accepted, and Daenerys treasures it for that, and treasures the fact that Jorah’s import on that night was recognised too. The song of the bear and the dragon is _their_ song, sung years before they formally came out with their engagement. She suspects that their infamy on the battlefield that night helped to sway the common people over in supporting their relationship. Love, not hate, had proven to be the stronger driving force, and another spoke on the wheel had snapped clean off. The cheers from the common people on their public wedding day were the loudest they had ever been.

After all, her reign would never have started without him.

“Papa can tell us the story about his knighthood another day,” Daenora tell her sister with her usual careful restraint. She’s good at that, leading her younger siblings along the right path. She often bemoans that they irritate her, young and rambunctious as they are, but Daenerys knows that she’s as fiercely protective of them as a mother bear would be with her cubs. “I want to hear the end of the story about the Long Night. It’s the best story there is.” She turns shining blue eyes on her father, the adoration plain on her sullen little face. Yes, she is the apple of Jorah’s eye. He loves all three of his children fiercely for very different reasons—Daenora for being the special first, Eleana for being the sweet youngest daughter, Jeoreys because he is the only son—and of course he loves them equally too, but there is a special bond between Jorah and Daenora. Perhaps it’s because she’s the most like him, prone to those long, brooding silences. Perhaps it’s because she looks startlingly like him, with her honey-coloured hair and piercing eyes and strong northern features. When she smiles her little bashful smile and ducks her head in embarrassment, she simply takes Daenerys’ breath away because it’s Jorah’s mannerisms seeping through.

Eleana jumps in the snow, drawing her own wooden sword from its scabbard with a flourish. “Okay, then. What happened next?”

Jorah runs his hand through his hair, that bashful tic he’s always had. “Then the Night King fell.” Daenerys hides her smile against Jeorey’s furs; when put like that, it sounds rather dull.

Daenora’s eyes are wide as saucers, eager to fill in again with the knowledge she has. “He was slain by Arya stark, the Wild Wolf!”

“That’s right. She cut through the Night King with her dragonglass blade and he shattered into a million shards of ice. When he fell, so too did the army of the dead.” So too did Viserion, no longer a violated corpse at the hands of such evil but able to rest in peace at last.

So too had Jorah, collapsing like a sack of bricks to the snow beneath them. Snow dyed red with his blood. She will never forget that wave of terror, falling to her knees beside him and hauling his lifeless body into her arms. Cupping his face, raw sobs tearing at her throat. Begging him without words to stay with her, please stay...

She’d had no right to ask it of him. Any other man would have fallen eons before. No one in the whole world—not Tyrion, not Jon, not Sansa, not Arya—had seen how hard Jorah had fought. Only she will ever know how he took a hundred blows, the terrible crunch of metal slicing through metal to hit vulnerable skin below. Blood leaking through the slits in his armour, staining the grey snow. The dead weight of him in her arms, the way his eyes had clouded over but still tried to seek her out, how he had tried to tell her something with his final breaths...

And she’d overrode him. Begged him to stay. _Commanded_ him to stay. She’d known he would never defy a direct order from her. He was sworn to obey her every command. He would fight death for her.

And so he did. Over a period of weeks. And she’d sat by his side for those weeks, holding his hand through it all, the cold in her chest slowly being diffused by the warm ball in the pit of her stomach, the feelings she hadn’t yet been able to fully understand.

And now look where they are.

She swallows against the swell of feelings now, reaching out for his forearm, needing to feel his firm skin beneath her fingers. To solidify that he is real, still there with her. She still has dreams about that night, and the only thing that calms her is wrapping her arms around him and feeling the rise and fall of his chest.

Jorah must understand the swirl of emotion inside, for he bends down in the snow to kneel before his daughters.

“We were all very lucky that night,” he says. “That’s all it came down to. Not skill. Just luck and the determination to never give up. And I was never going to give up on your mother. Which makes me all the luckier, because it meant that I got you out of it. The miracle dragon cubs.”

Daenora shoots him a grin, all the more endearing because she’s lost her front teeth. “I still think you’re a hero, Papa, no matter what you say.”

“Me too,” Eleana agrees. “You saved Mama, just like the knights in the songs!”

Jorah chuckles, ruffling her curly mop of hair. “Aye, lass, if you say so. But the real truth of the matter is that your mother saved me many years before that.”

“How?” Eleana begs to know.

“That’s a story for another day,” he says, sweeping his thumb over her cheekbone.

“Bed time?” she beseeches.

“We’ll see. Now, you and Nora run on ahead, and Mama and I will catch you up in a moment.”

“Okay,” she nods vigorously. “Come on, Daenora! We can re-enact the Long Night as we go!” She brandishes her wooden sword under her sister’s nose. Daenora sighs, but Daenerys knows she likes the idea; in the next moment her own wooden sword is extended out in front of her once more.

“You be Mama and I’ll be Papa,” she orders a tad bossily, and Jeoreys strains in Daenerys’ arms, whining and pointing.

“Down, down!” he demands of her, and she complies, holding him against her as he acclimatises to the snow beneath his feet, a novelty since this is his first encounter with this strange substance.

“Let Jeoreys come with you,” she instructs.

“He can be the Night King!” Eleana proclaims happily.

“Don’t hurt him,” says Jorah firmly. “You’ve got to look after the lad. No hitting him with your swords. The boy can barely hold one yet.”

“We’ll look after him, Papa,” promises Daenora.

“Let’s go!” says Eleana impatiently. And with that she sets off, sending up a spray of snow as she runs.

“Wait for me!” Daenora calls after her and, grabbing at her brother’s hand, she sets off after her.

In the silence that follows, Daenerys sidles closer to her husband’s side, looping her arm through his. She watches her children fighting off imaginary enemies, utterly carefree. They don’t know war. She prays they never do. She’s seen enough horror and bloodshed in her time. She doesn’t want her children to see the same. Fire and blood might be her house’s words, but they don’t need more violence. Just peace. Which she’s achieved, with the help of her followers.

None more fervent than Jorah.

“I think they enjoyed that,” she says, resting her cheek against his forearm. “Their papa is a hero of the Long Night. There aren’t many children who can say that.”

“I did no more than anyone else,” he grumbles lightly, but he can’t hide the pleased smile that touches the corners of his mouth. Whatever he says, there’s little in the world he likes more than being praised by his family, particularly her. He’s a true serving knight in every respect.

She hides her smirk against his furs.

“I’d rather not remember that night,” he admits. “It was almost more than I could bear. I feared death in the end. But more than anything I feared for _you_. That was the sole thought on my mind, keeping you safe.”

“And you did,” she says. Her mood softens. “I’m so lucky to have you. Truly. And I love you. More than I ever thought it possible to love a man. If I’m grateful to the Long Night for anything, it’s for that. Without that night, I don’t think I would have realised just what it was that I felt for you. I can’t even bear to imagine a life without you, Jorah.”

“I am hers, she is mine,” he says, repeating those lines from that long ago ceremony conducted for the world to see in the light of the Seven. “That will always be true, Daenerys, no matter what.”

“I hope so,” she says, wistful. “Whether I’m queen or not, or just a simple wife?”

“Always,” he vows. “But you could never _just_ be anything, Daenerys. You are extraordinary in whatever you do.”

It brings a lump to her throat. Yes, to this man she is more than her titles. She is a woman too. And being a woman sometimes is just what she needs.

It bolsters her resolve. There are things to discuss and Jorah will support her.

But that’s for tomorrow, when this particular anniversary has passed. Tonight is a celebration of life, a time for the people who stood together on that night to reconnect now and remember their fallen comrades. Daenerys will raise a toast to their bravery, and will feast and dance and _celebrate_ the fact that the people she loves the most are still with her. Later, when the hour grows late, she will tuck her children into their beds before taking Jorah into their own. She’ll make love to him, slowly, gently, let him know how much she loves him with her body. She envisages it being another Long Night for a very different reason.

“Come on,” is all she voices. “Let’s get back to Winterfell. The others will start to wonder where we are.”

“And the last thing we need are ribald comments from Tyrion,” Jorah agrees. “He’s already teaching the children things they’re far too young to know.”

Daenerys shudders at the memory of Daenora matter-of-factly informing them that she now knew what they were doing when they told her, Eleana, and Jeoreys they were holding private meetings in their chambers. Jorah had been furious, but Tyrion had only laughed in their faces, pleased that he’d managed to piss off his nemesis-turned-grudging-friend.

“All children should learn these life lessons early,” he’d advised. “I was looking at tits when I was seven.”

“And look how you’ve turned out,” Jorah snarked.

But that was just a part of the odd family she had collected for herself over the years. And her children loved them all.

They begin trudging through the snow after their children’s voices, and Daenerys slides her fingers down his arm to link with his. He squeezes her hand, glancing down at her with a smile.

“We’ve done all right in the last ten years, haven’t we?” he says.

“We have. We’ve come a very long way in all aspects.”

“It never occurred to me before the Long Night started that if I survived I’d have three children ten years down the line. Especially not children shared with you, my love.”

“I never thought I’d have children in any capacity,” she says. “My dragons...I thought they were the only children I would have...” She shakes her head in wonder. Just remembering holding her squalling babes in her arms, red and full of fury, makes a lump rise in her throat.

“The dragon must have three heads,” says Jorah, evidently sensing her thoughts.

Yes, three heads. Three little dragon cubs, as robust and fiery as any true dragon.

Daenora, Eleana, Jeoreys. Three dragons to continue the Targaryen-Mormont line. Perhaps Jon will sire children of his own one day, but they will never truly understand what it means to have the blood of the dragon. Jon is a Stark, despite what his name says, and any children he has will be raised like that.

Jorah has never wished to suppress her lineage. Never wished to suppress _her_. She is queen and he is king consort; he does not enjoy the intricacies of ruling, preferring instead to maintain his position of Lord Commander of her Queensguard, drilling the City Watch. Their children are in no danger of being swayed by dangerous, grandiose notions of their right to rule for, along with the most trusted members of her household, she has ensured that they have an unfiltered education, as aware of the horrors that House Targaryen have wrought as they are of the others. As a queen, it is her sole purpose to make them see that her one and only objective is to break the wheel.

With the people she has around her, she has complete faith that it’s only a matter of time before it splinters entirely.

“Daenerys?”

She blinks, coming back to herself. Jorah scrunches his brow, a touch of concern ghosting his features.

“Is there something wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing,” she reassures him. “But I should have known that you’d notice.”

“It’s my duty to take note of my surroundings.”

She waves her hand, biting back a grin. “Not much to see here apart from miles of bloody endless snow.”

“And a very beautiful woman standing by my side,” he murmurs.

“There’s one thing that Tyrion’s wrong about: Northerners _do_ know how to woo women. He says all they have are surly looks and incomprehensible grunts, but you have a tongue of honey when the mood takes you.”

“I’m a Bear Islander. We do everything better than the mainlanders.”

“That I can attest to.” She reaches up to his mouth, winding her arms around his neck and pushing her body against his. He enfolds her in his embrace, one hand holding her at the small of her back and the other splaying against the nape of her neck, parting her lips with the tip of his tongue. Heat licks through Daenerys’ belly, and she curses the fact that they _do_ have to wait until later, because there’s nothing she wants more than to take him on the pile of furs in front of the fire in their Winterfell quarters.

“Mama! Papa! What are you _doing_?”

They break apart at the sound of Daenora’s voice to find her staring at them with her arms folded across her chest.

“You’re taking ages,” she complains. “Jeoreys is whining because he’s hungry and Eleana fell over so she’s soaked through. She’s more bothered that she’s bent her sword, but she’s going to have to get changed.”

“All right, we’re coming,” says Daenerys. “We’re right behind you.”

Their eldest eyes them critically. “You’d better be. And _please_ stop kissing. I don’t want _another_ brother or sister!”

As she stalks away, Daenerys can’t help it: she bursts into peals of laughter. For years it was a sound foreign to her. Now, every day, there is so much joy in her heart.

Jorah’s low, gravelly chuckles intermingle with hers, and he sidles up behind her, pulling her flush against him and resting his chin against the crown of her head.

“I think we’re safe on that score,” he says wryly. “Three is our magic number.”

“It is. So thankfully we don’t have to stop, and Daenora will never know.”

“We’re going to have to come up with some new euphemism,” Jorah laments.

“I’ll leave that to you. Your creativity in all areas of our life never ceases to amaze me.”

He tightens his hold on her, his warning growl of her name belittled by the smile she feels curving against the side of her neck as he presses a kiss there, his stubble burning deliciously. She turns her head to find his mouth with her own once more, a last moment of peace before they’re consumed by the chaos of their children.

“I love you,” he breathes when they part, standing right on the spot where they once fought together. “You and the children.”

Her heart is too full. So she says nothing, opting to slip out of his arms and take his hand once more, pulling him along with her, through the tracks left behind by their flesh and blood.

In an age of heroes, all four of them—her _family_ —are the greatest gifts she could have been blessed with.


End file.
